


Still Counting

by MarcelWorldsmith



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Art, Bottom Will Graham, Fanart, Freddie Lounds (mention), Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal Lecter thinks he's clever, Hannibal POV, Hannibal is thwarted by a motocycle, Inspired by Music, Minor Character Death, Murder as therapy, Oral Sex, Other, Sassy Will Graham, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Young Will Graham, and technology, confused Hannibal, graphic depictions of murder, lying by omission, non-binary Will Graham - Freeform, rudeness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24730828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarcelWorldsmith/pseuds/MarcelWorldsmith
Summary: Hannibal find himself visiting a new restaurant and bites off more than he can chew.*****“That is very rude,” Hannibal's frown is now a permanent fixture on his face.Will laughs incredulously, “That was rude?That was rude?You’ve been staring at me like I’m something youstepped inforover a month, nevermind you interrupting my dinner to tell me I’m dressed likeriff raff,” Graham hisses and grabs their phone, shoving it into their pocket as they start to get up. “That is very rude, Dr Lecter. You goddamnhypocrite.”
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 34
Kudos: 265
Collections: 2020 Eat The Rude Big Bang





	Still Counting

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to [Dreamerinsilico](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamerInSilico/pseuds/DreamerInSilico), who beta'd this mess and saved me from doing some really stupid stuff.
> 
> Thank you to another_lost_one for your [wonderful art!](https://heavymetalhannigram.tumblr.com/post/620966385014734848/eat-the-rude-big-bang) Please support her on [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/anotherlost1)
> 
> This piece is inspired by my an attempted argument in a restaurant and some [kick-ass metal.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aXhjp85UNJI)

Counting all the assholes in the room  
Well I'm definitely not alone, well I'm not alone  
You're a liar, you're a cheater, you're a fool  
Well that's just like me yoohoo  
And I know you too  
Mr. Perfect don't exist my little friend  
And I tell you it all again, and I do it again

Counting all the assholes in the room  
Well I'm definitely not alone, well I'm not alone

Look deep into yourself before you blame all others  
For betrayal, for betrayal  
I promise, so easy to say, and easy you fail  
And you’d do it again

Well maybe you think your lie is safe  
But I read you like a letter, yeah like a letter  
Your charm do not evens the pain  
It fills me with rage  
And you do it again

-Still Counting, Volbeat

The vintage Bedelia offered at the end of their session was different enough from her usual monotonous collection of post-therapy wines for Hannibal to make an intrigued sound at his first sip. It was excellent.

“Ah, the sommelier at the new waterfront restaurant recommended some varieties. I find I am quite enjoying the diversity. One grows tired of the repetitious.”

Indeed one does, but the knowledge of a new restaurant, however unique it claims to be, was not enough to tempt Hannibal. And he is sure it must be unique to lure Bedelia out of her house. 

No, not even when the restaurant became a gossip point for Baltimore's elite did Hannibal deign to investigate. He didn't care that the silent partner that financed the entire business was a La Fontaine. Or that they haven't been seen in public. He really didn't. He did spare a vicious smile when he heard the restaurant had banned Mason Verger from its premises, for rudeness, but the meat-packing dynasty heir had been banned from half the establishments in Baltimore already. It was hardly worthy news. 

Then the head chef died, a car accident, and Hannibal found himself abruptly, extremely curious.

Bedelia would undoubtedly have an _opinion_ about his sudden fascination now that a death had been involved, especially one he did not cause, but Hannibal just can't help himself.

******

Hannibal settles into his table at The Red Dog, a decidedly Southern-theme reigning over the inside of the newly repurposed Seven Foot Knoll lighthouse. He is pleasantly surprised by the overall effect; simple white tablecloths, decor tasteful enough to not detract from the magnificent view of the Patapsco river. There are only two things he can find fault with: the emptiness of the centre column, begging beautifully for a piece of art, and the presence of a completely underdressed individual in a window-side booth.

At first glance Hannibal surmises them to be a teenage boy, no older than 17, but upon closer inspection he’s not entirely sure that he’s right. Long brown curls in a haphazard bun, threadbare sweater, tight black jeans and unlaced army boots give no definitive indication as to gender. Their shoulders aren’t as broad as he’d expect from a boy, but their chest shows no female proportions. They could be a late bloomer or could be wearing a binder, he surmises. It’s none of his business anyway, and he ignores the stranger in favor of his menu. 

He is sufficiently distracted by bona fide Cajun cuisine and fine wine, the bastardized French on the menu lending a thoughtful authenticity. A bold move, he thinks, but it got high society to eat working class food. It seems the establishment has found a suitable replacement for their head chef.

Hannibal deems it prudent to return. After all, where else would he find gumbo of this quality except for Louisiana itself? 

He just hopes management upholds its dress code next time.

*****

Management does not, the same individual seated in the same booth next time Hannibal arrives, only this time they’re definitely dressed even worse. Worn out cargo pants and a dark grey henley are highlighted by the stark white line of an earphone cable. _Rude._

__

__

His irritation is smothered by yet another excellent meal, but while waiting for desert, his annoyance grows once again.

He cannot help looking at them again, their curls in disarray as they finish their meal, eating with their hands despite the provided cutlery. 

They leave without any indication of paying for their meal, but the wait staff don’t seem fazed.

Curious. 

*****

Hannibal tells himself it is relief he feels when he next enters the restaurant absent of its rude curly-haired patron. They had trickled into his mind throughout the intermeaning days, thoughts of them coming suddenly and unbidden like the _tap-tap_ of a leaking faucet, much to his consternation. Hannibal chided himself every time his thoughts slipped to the texture of that messy head of hair, the sound of a voice he’s never heard. 

He’s just about to admit that he’s disappointed and _move on_ when they come in like a silent hurricane. They are vaguely irritated by the rain outside, its remnants glistening spots in their hair and over their thick green parka. A waiter leans over the table and Hannibal is treated to his first proper look at their face. The grin he sees is a violent stab of sunlight from a tanned and handsome face coming through grey clouds. Beautiful.

Hannibal catches himself. These thoughts are inappropriate and dangerous, the small amounts of space they already take up in his daily machinations have the potential to grow from a few small drops all the way to a devastating flash flood. If he is to add this stranger to his rolodex, he cannot become attached.

He must get rid of this problem sooner rather than later. Hannibal resolves to finish his meal quickly, but not so fast as to draw attention, and then wait to follow the stranger home. 

******

Hannibal is in a _mood_. His attempt at stalking was foiled within a matter of minutes as the stranger sped off into Baltimore’s evening traffic on a noisy but agile motorcycle. No matter how fast the Bentley could go, it could not flit through traffic and away after them.

Hannibal relieves some anger in the form of Angela Forthright’s murder and frames her in her own art restoration studio. She is a bare broken statue, the stump of her left leg resembling broken marble in its sawed-through line. He also takes her liver.

Hannibal’s good mood evaporates after three days, and he heads back to The Red Dog. 

******

The restaurant is busy enough that Hannibal fears he may not get a table, though he is glad to see it flourishing in the wake of previous tragedy. 

He is being taken through to his seat when he makes eye contact with the curly-haired youth. Abruptly, he changes direction and takes the empty seat across from them. Looking back, Hannibal still has no explanation for his impulsive decision.

Hannibal expected surprise, but all he gets is a very unamused raised brow. He reaches over to the phone on the table and stops the music - noting the name of the song to be _Pork and Beans_ \- before sliding it back to its owner in a clear invitation (demand) to talk. They remove their earphones oh so slowly.

“Uhm…” the waiter says.

“It’s alright Jimmy,” the stranger says, not looking away from Hannibal. Ah, such a lovely voice.

“Mr Graham,” Jimmy dips his head and disappears.

Mr Graham leans back, head tilted in a parody of patience, unamused. Hannibal imagines his expression is far less congenial.

They sit in silence for several moments, each sizing the other up.

Graham sighs, dropping azure eyes with a shake of their head. Hannibal tries to follow them, his face twitching in minute irritation when he finds he can’t. Graham narrows in on the movement and Hannibal feels immediately exposed.

“Can I help you?” a slight southern accent tinges the words, though tempered.

“You're entirely inappropriately dressed,” Hannibal supplies blandly. 

Graham blinks. “ _That's_ what this is about? _My clothes?_ ”

“Yes. I had thought management would take care of the situation but it seems a direct approach is necessary.” 

“I’m here quite often and they haven’t kicked me out, so don’t get your hopes up.” It is said with narrowed eyes.

“Well, then.”

A pause. 

“What did you think this was about?” Hannibal has no excuse for this either.

That earns Hannibal two raised brows and a fixed jaw. “Seriously?”

“Indulge me.”

“Why should I?” comes the quip. “Give me one good reason why I should _indulge you._ ” 

Hannibal is prepared for anger, but he is still taken aback by the venom dripping from the words. He frowns.

“I assure you, your gender-nonconformance is not what this is about.”

“Oh really? Because I’ve had plenty of people say that to me when I call them out.”

Hannibal’s frown deepens, “This is about your apparent disregard for the rules of fine dining, nothing more.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I really don’t give a shit about rules,” Graham gestures to themself, “So, could you please fuck off?”

“That is very rude,” Hannibal's frown is now a permanent fixture on his face.

Graham laughs incredulously, “That was rude? _That was rude?_ You’ve been staring at me like I’m something you _stepped in_ for _over a month_ , nevermind you interrupting my dinner to tell me I’m dressed like _riff raff_ ,” Graham hisses and grabs their phone, shoving it into their pocket as they start to get up. “That is very rude, Dr Lecter. You goddamn _hypocrite_.”

Hannibal is momentarily stunned into silence. How…?

“Wait!” he calls when his brain restarts. Graham has barely started towards the door, but turns to look at him, furious. “You’re right, I have been inexcusably rude. Please, let me apologize properly,” he inclines his head to the recently vacated seat. Graham doesn’t move. “Please,” he says again, and they slowly take their seat.

For the first time in a very long time, Hannibal does not know how to proceed. 

“How do you know my name?” he opts for something neutral and immediately regrets it, wincing internally.

“Even assholes like me read the society pages, Dr Lecter,” the reply is devoid of all feeling.

“I never said-”

“No, you never said, but you implied,” Graham speaks with ice-cold patience born from slow burning anger. Hannibal knows the feeling well. “And even if you didn’t imply, I can still see what you think of me.”

Hannibal reflexively blanks his face, sitting straighter in his seat. 

Graham narrows their eyes at him, “I’m still waiting for my apology.”

Hannibal stifles a sigh. Yes, indeed. He said he’d apologize and he is a man of his word, “I have been unspeakably rude, please forgive me.”

“That’s not an apology, that’s a request for forgiveness.”

Hannibal feels an immediate stab of irritation. He takes a breath, “I-” and let’s it all out at the sight of the slight smirk creeping up Graham’s face. “I apologize for my behaviour, Mr Graham,” he bites out.

“Will.”

“I apologize, Will.”

“Apology accepted.”

Hannibal frowns at that.

“There it is again,” Will says and Hannibal tilts his head in question, “You think I’m an asshole, but you’re too polite to say it out loud.”

 _Is he slipping?_ How can someone he’s spoken to for less than five minutes see through him so well? Hannibal’s surprise must have shown on his face, for Will’s next words nearly make his heart stop.

“You have a very impressive mask, Doctor, but I can still catch a glimpse.”

Has Will been following him that they can read him so easily? Hannibal’s heart starts beating double-time and he is _fascinated_.

“What else do you see?”

Will laughs, a striking sound that Hannibal decides he simply must hear again. “Most people wouldn’t want their inner workings laid out to them.”

“I am not most people,” Hannibal says, schooling his eagerness into a mask of polite expectation.

“No you are not,” Will eyes him for a moment, biting at their bottom lip, “Alright, but don’t say I didn't warn you,” Will leans forward to study Hannibal. Hannibal studies Will in turn. 

Will is, in one word, beautiful, though rough around the edges. They show none of the classic signs of hormone treatment; jaw smooth instead of stubbled and a clearly female voice. The glint of ear piercings coming through curly hair. Steel blue eyes like polished gunmetal are framed by long dark lashes in a sharp sun-kissed face. It is all brought together by a soft mouth. He only dares a glimpse at the red-tinged lips as Will is still studying him closely. 

“Well, you’re from old money. Even European nouveau rich doesn’t dress like you. You’re obviously well-educated, well-respected and intelligent. You’re religiously polite, but that is just another way for you to hold yourself above everyone else. And you are above everyone, Dr Lecter, they’re all so banal, your high society _friends_ ,” Will almost sneers the last word and Hannibal wonders distantly if Will is aware their manner of speech has changed to subtly mimic his own, “They sing your praises wherever you go, the perfect bachelor in their eyes, but they don’t know how you look down at them. You’ve elected yourself as the moral authority on social graces.” 

“Do you believe I think myself above you too, Will?”

“We don’t run in the same circles, Doctor, and I honestly don’t give a shit what you think of me.”

Hannibal’s face twitches at Will’s profanity and he receives another laugh for his trouble. Will looks him dead in the eye and carries on.

“Because of that I’m adding delicate sensibilities to the list. Your relationships are superficial and those you do invest in are still done from behind your mask. You play with people, ingratiate yourself to them, charming bastard. You liar. Narcissistic, psychopathic, sadistic and, underneath all the good manners and fancy clothes-,” eyes flick down and up over him “-you’re so damn bored of pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes. There’s someone in your life who you’ve let peek at what’s truly living inside you, but you haven’t let them close enough. Maybe you like toying them with the truth, maybe you’re still waiting for the right person, but you achingly, desperately want to be seen.” 

Hannibal is frozen. Never, in all his life, did he expect _that_. He is abruptly terrified that Will has managed to look so deep into his soul, seen who and what he is, and he has never been more curious about another human being. His mouth opens but no sound comes forth.

An invisible spell breaks, and Will drops their eyes to their lap, rubbing at their face. “I...I’m sorry. This is why I-” Will starts getting up.

“Will.”

“I’m sorry,” it’s whispered shamefully.

“Will, please,” Hannibal holds a hand out to halt Will’s departure, “I am not offended, If anything I’m…” Hannibal is struck by the sudden urge to comfort Will.

Will slowly sinks down into the chair but avoids Hannibal’s eyes entirely.

“I imagine what you see touches everything else in your mind.” He can’t keep the fascination out of his voice. He blames this lapse on his shaken demeanor. 

“Oh god. You’re a psychiatrist,” Will drops their head in their hands with a self-depreciating chuckle.

“I sense poor experiences regarding psychiatrists in the past,” Hannibal quips. He tries to convey assurance in his voice. Will still appears distraught.

“Yeah, some of them have been less than accommodating with regards to my...identity and even more of them have tried to study me,” Will looks at Hannibal’s shoulder. Progress at least.

“Shall I apologize on behalf of my profession?” he gives a small smile in the hopes that it prompts Will to do the same. 

Will rolls their eyes genially, “Only you would think yourself important enough to do that.”

They smile in communal amusement, Will still avoiding his eyes.

“I really am sorry,” they start, but Hannibal lifts a hand to stop them.

“Observing is what we do. Perhaps we should consider using apologies sparingly, or we would find ourselves apologizing without end,” Hannibal suggests and Will meets his eyes briefly before looking away again.

“You’re not angry?”

“No Will, in fact I find myself enthralled,” Will stares at him openly now. Hannibal doesn’t know why he opts for honesty, but Will has proven to be such an accurate polygraph he feels he doesn’t have a choice. “Shall I return the favor? I fear my attempt may not be as good as yours.”

Will sits back with a huff, posture relaxing in increments, “Sure, Dr. Lecter, take a stab at it.” 

Hannibal smiles at the dark amusement, “One thing, which pronouns do you prefer?”

Will’s brow furrows, and it is adorable, “I...uh…”

“I simply wish to avoid making you uncomfortable, and I won’t take offence to your unwillingness to tell me.” Hannibal is overcome with the need to reassure Will, a reaction so rarely evoked with his own patients. He files the thought away for later consideration.

“That’s hardly reassuring coming from the man about to psychoanalyze me,” Will quirks a wry half smile, “I don't ascribe to any one gender, but you can use female pronouns. You're lucky that you have a gender-neutral title.” That last part is tacked on with a hint of envy. 

Hannibal dips his head in acknowledgement, “Genderfluid and yet you still dress like a mechanic,” he says lightly. 

Will rolls her eyes, giving Hannibal a pointed look that reiterates _I don't particularly care for your opinion_. Hannibal, for once, finds he doesn’t mind Will's particular brand of brash snark.

“You are very far from home. I wonder if you come here so often because you hunger for that particular taste from childhood.”

“I’m not homesick, if that’s what you're implying, cher. You're a long way from home too, d’ya find yourself hunting for places with home-made European classics?” Will added a significant helping of Louisiana twang to her words, and it goes straight to Hannibal's cock. “Comfort food isn't that difficult to make, but I would rather eat here.”

“You’re a social outcast,” he attempts to cover up his distraction, ignoring the fog of arousal until it dissipates, hopefully without Will's notice. 

“Come on, anyone could have told you that,” Will gives him an unimpressed look. 

“Hush, Will,” Hannibal leans his chin on one hand, gazing at the enigma in front of him, “I doubt your social isolation was self-imposed at first; it very rarely is. No, you were pushed aside but not only because of your gender identity. You tend to make people uncomfortable and you’ve learned to embrace their exclusion of you. You lose yourself in other people if you’re not careful when looking inside their minds. What you see bleeds into everything inside your skull. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. Which is why you only have a handful of close friends, and even they don’t know all that much about you.” What Hannibal doesn't add, is that he sees something wonderfully dark brewing in Will. If he coaxes it out, could it match his own? 

“Close, Doctor, real close. Should I expect a bill for a therapy session in the mail?”

“You use sarcasm as a defence mechanism, which only shows just how close I’ve gotten.”

“Eye for an eye?”

“You’ve taken two eyes to my one Will.”

“Yeah, maybe, but only because you have several wardrobes full of skeletons, Dr. Lecter. Whatever you’re hiding...I don’t want to know. It’s dangerous.”

He smiles, showing his teeth this time, “Please, call me Hannibal.”

Dinner progresses amicably after that and conversation turns to lighter, more superficial topics. He laughs at Will's tale of an overturned fishing boat and is struck by the image of her, sopping wet and standing waist deep in a stream. Neither give away any more secrets and Hannibal insists on paying for their meals, yet another apology.

*****

The next evening, Hannibal pursues and acquires one Adam Whethers-Smith and lovingly displays him as the cherub atop a fountain emptied for repairs in Druid Hill park. Of course, Hannibal takes his heart and finds he doesn’t particularly care for the heavy-handed symbolism. 

Freddie Lounds exclaims _Has Valentine's Day Come Early?!_ and Baltimore is on the knife-edge of anticipation. Hannibal is absolutely delighted by the frenzy.

He thanks Bedelia for suggesting he visit the restaurant, tells her that he met someone there. She is appropriately horrified behind her veneer of ice. She suspects what Hannibal is and knows nothing good comes from his moments of deeply invested curiosity. 

His good humor lasts him the entire week until his dinner reservation at the Dog. He is not only looking forward to the food.

*****

Hannibal is once again sitting close to the central pillar in the middle of the lighthouse, where he can see a very empty window-side booth.

Will is not here.

He really shouldn’t have built up the expectation of conversing with Will again over the week, his excitement at finally finding someone with the capacity for understanding, even the slight possibility, getting the better of him. He had even judged his reservation approximately a week after their first conversation to be long enough to not seem overeager, but soon enough to still indicate some interest. 

Did he miscalculate?

Will did say she dines here often, not all the time. Perhaps it's simply bad luck that they have missed each other tonight. Hannibal resigns himself to dining alone, the excellent food not quite enough to keep his good humor from evaporating. 

He attempts to pay for the evening’s meal, pleasantly surprised to be informed that it isn’t necessary. “On the house, Dr. Lecter,” Jimmy says genially, giving a small bow as he sees Hannibal out.

Hannibal is confused. He hasn’t had a day with such emotional ups and downs since he was in his teens. 

He indulges in a therapy session of his own making and kills two people, a married couple who frequently run together. He places them on their knees, facing one another but not touching, in an empty warehouse near Sparrows Point. The larger man looks out of the open warehouse door towards the river, his hands bound together to cup around his husband’s brain. The smaller man merely kneels, indifferent. He takes both their hearts and a generous portion of each right thigh. Uncharacteristically, he leaves the wounds on their thighs open to ooze blood down their naked forms.

He goes home and tells himself he is not sulking as he packages and freezes everything he collected, not tasting a single morsel. 

The bodies are found the next day and the city's buzz reaches near deafening levels, deep thunderclouds of mania on the horizon. Hannibal is proud to be the cause of mass hysteria yet again, but it is felt from a distance. It is hollow. 

He wonders what Bedelia would say to that and is immediately irritated. 

*****

Hannibal is back at the Dog sooner than he'd planned, for a reason he will never admit, plucking at his wine glass. He's brooding into his menu when someone clunks into the chair across from him. Hannibal is overjoyed to see Will, but schools his expression into one of mild surprise, sprinkled with consternation. 

Will's pointed look gains an edge in the form of a smirk, and Hannibal knows his effort has been in vain. 

“I see you still have a blatant disregard for proper attire,” he says, eyeing her t-shirt and jeans, “You could at least have laced up your boots properly.”

“And waste time? They stay on my feet perfectly fine without the laces,” Will leans over to grab the menu out of his hands, studying it intently. 

“Rude, Will.”

“I never claimed to be anything else, unlike you,” she smirks again. 

“Hmmm,” Hannibal concedes the point, Will is clever enough to win that particular argument even though he had apologized for his transgression. Which is why he tries to gain the upper hand in another way, “You're late.”

“I wasn't aware we had a standing appointment, Doctor,” she says flatly, meeting Hannibal's eyes head on. 

Hannibal is suddenly seized by the need to outmanoeuvre Will in any way he can, but knows the only way he can is to surprise himself too. He therefore barely thinks about the words before they leave his mouth, “And what would you say if I suggest we do?”

Will's mouth parts on an intake of breath, eyes going wide. Then they narrow in suspicion, and Hannibal desperately wants to see their color contrast with the twinkling Arno as it flows through Florence. “Are you asking me out?”

“It seems I am.”

“On like a date?”

“Yes.”

Will fidgets with the menu, her shoulders tightening and eyes jumping everywhere except Hannibal's face. She swallows, jaw working, “This could be a date.”

“Would you like it to be?”

That earns him a spectacular set of rolled eyes, and the tension of the moment breaks. “Fucking psychiatrists,” she mutters, “Won't your peers look down on you for associating with someone so…”

“You told me yourself, dear Will, that I only care superficially about what they think. Or do you hold so little stock in your own opinion?”

Will glares. 

“Perhaps you believe I think very little of you?”

“Nuh-uh, that opportunity of psychoanalysis was a one time offer only.” She holds a finger up to indicate the matter is closed. Hannibal can't help a small smile at her cheek. If only he could take her along to a few high society events, she would scandalize so many uptight people…

“Besides,” she continues, looking down at the menu again, “I thought we held the same opinion with regards to each other after our last conversation.”

Hannibal stiffens. Did...did Will just call him an asshole? “You mean-” he cuts off at the irritatingly self-satisfied look Will gives him from beneath her lashes. She scoffs, and Hannibal can't help his lips tugging at the corners. 

“So, wanna share a crawfish boil?”

“I'd be delighted.”

Will orders for them, and when their food arrives, tucks in without cutlery. Hannibal removes his jacket and cufflinks, rolling up his shirt sleeves to follow suit. It's his turn to smirk as Will focuses on the sure and practiced movements of his fingers over his cuffs as they bare his forearms. 

Will's fingers are glistening with salt and oil, like an acrylic study of a fisherman busy hauling in his catch, covered in fish scales and water. Hannibal is thinking about what they would taste like underneath all the spice when he spies a collection of band-aids close to her knuckles. 

“What happened to your hands?”

“Oh,” Will tilts a hand to frown at the offending wounds, “My bike died a violent death during its annual check-up and tried to take me out too. It's not as bad as it looks.”

Hannibal is glad the offending vehicle is out of commission, remembering how it botched his attempt on her life. He is then abruptly unhappy about that thought, admittedly having grown fond of Will. “No hope for repairs?”

“I mean, maybe? I know a lot about boat engines, how much different could a motorbike be? At least Uber is a thing, so I’m not completely stranded until all the parts arrive.”

Hannibal can't say he is pleased to hear that, wanting every opportunity to get closer to this enigmatic creature. “You repair boat motors?” 

“Yeah, my dad taught me before he died. Plus I can make some decent cash on the side.”

“I am sorry to hear.”

“Oh, thanks, but it was a long time ago. Lucky me, my mother decided around that time that she wanted me in her life after all.”

“It still hurts.”

Will looks at him and with the first glance Hannibal _knows_ Will can see the loss in him too. They silently agree to move on from the topic. 

“Tell me about your mother.”

Will bursts out laughing, the sound warming Hannibal from within. 

“No way in hell. Ask me something else.”

“Let me make you dinner.”

“We’re already having dinner.”

“I mean let me make it, in my home.”

“Why?” Will had that furrow in her brow again, the one that Hannibal desperately wanted to smooth out with his thumb. Or his lips.

“I find myself enjoying our conversations. Don't you?”

“We've had exactly two. Is that enough for you to judge? What do you get out of our conversations, Doctor?” 

Will is still suspicious. “What do you think I get out of them, Will?”

She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, letting it slip out between her teeth as she looks down at the decimated remains of their meal, “I think that this, for you, is the closest thing to an honest connection you've had in a very long time. I can't see how you'd want to be exposed after all these years.”

“Perhaps you're right, but I still find myself wishing for your company.”

“You'd let an amateur boat mechanic in your house just for the pleasure of speaking to them?” Will waggles her eyebrows at him.

“It seems I will, provided that the mechanic wants to be there,” Hannibal graces Will with a smile that reaches his eyes. 

“Can I think about it?”

“As long as you like.”

They eat, and chat, and when they leave, Hannibal detects fresh river water and a hint of dog from Will's green parka as she swings it over her shoulders. He deliberately steps closer as he escorts her down the stairs to catch her natural scent along with something sweet and dark. The overall effect is redolent. 

“Are you sure I cannot offer you a ride home, Will?” 

Will hesitates, a flash of distrust in her eyes before being shuttered away. “No, thank you. I already have a ride,” she said, waving her phone at him as she starts walking along the curb, “Have a good evening!”

“You as well,” Hannibal is left wondering if Will really had seen through to the very bottom of his soul during that first conversation, or if this reluctance to allow Hannibal closer is a product of being raised on a more than steady diet of “don't talk to strangers.” It feels much deeper than a simple case of learned behavior. And that troubles him. 

That might also be the reason Will failed to give him a clear answer on his dinner invitation. Was this her way of letting him down easy, not saying no outright?

Hannibal had stood in the cold parking lot for a long time by the time the realization hit that he didn’t even have her phone number. They were only connected through The Red Dog.

*****

Though his heart isn't in it, Hannibal knows he must show face at some sort of event soon. He hasn’t been adequately social since meeting Will and hasn’t been to any of Baltimore’s high society functions since he last saw her. 

An art installation would do nicely as a reintroduction to the world of the elite.  
The Baltimore Museum of Art had partnered with a variety of art academies to display pieces from up-and-coming artists. The thrill of excitement he always got when on the edge of discovering something beautiful was almost enough to break Hannibal out of his unusually sombre mood. He had considered heading down to the lighthouse for dinner (and possibly see Will), but he couldn't get Will’s moment of hesitation out of his head. 

No, he would put any thought of Will out of his mind and concentrate on what was promising to be a lovely evening ahead. It was the only way he could return himself, and his life, to normal.

Just his luck, then, that the overall theme of the exhibition seems to be _water_.

*****

Hannibal slipped into his usual suit of charming entertainer, sipping wine and watching the exchanges of inane gossip and superficial opinions all around. He delighted in gatecrashing such conversations with deep, and seemingly honest, hypotheses. Witnessing vain faces contort when confronted with the truth was an endlessly amusing pastime, one shared with another socialite, Eleanor Komeda. She always greeted his antics with a somewhat feral grin before diving headfirst into an act of vanity.

He was once again conspiring with her when a flash of white-silver on Mediterranean blue catches his eye. He almost believed it a trick of the light that made one of the art pieces seem to come to life before he realized it was Will.

She is captivating, her white shirt unbuttoned underneath her cinched blue waistcoat to show a delicate criss-cross in ropes of silver chain from her throat down her chest. Her suit pants are fitted and her heels adorned with delicate silver leaves. Her hair is tied up artfully, several curls escaping around her lightly done-up face. She is petillant, a spumante body of water reflecting moonlight that fits in while simultaneously standing out between the pieces of art. Hannibal can feel himself staring.

She glides through the crowd, heads turning to the newcomer as a susurrus of gossip goes up. She pays it no mind, gazing serenely at her surroundings as she ambles casually with her hands in her pockets.

He is so distracted, he doesn't notice where her trajectory leads until she is standing right in front of him. He takes a second longer than is appropriate before he speaks.

“Mr. Graham, I see you are appropriately dressed.”

“Hello Doctor Lecter. If I'd known you'd be here, I wouldn't have bothered,” she quips.

“That implies you care what I think.”

“Oh, hardly. I just enjoy pushing buttons and you are so very restrained by politeness,” she squints at him playfully, “or you usually are. Aren't you going to introduce me?” 

“Ah, my apologies,” Hannibal scrambles for any scrap of decorum, his usual graceful habits having fled, “Will, this is Eleanor Komeda. Eleanor, this is Will Graham.”

Will extends a hand to shake, and Hannibal sees more of the same delicate chain spider webbing over the back of it, along with a silver ring, “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You as well,” Eleanor takes her hand and delicately shakes, “It's not every day I see someone make Hannibal Lecter fall over his words,” she says conspiratorially. 

“Oh, he's not usually like this? He's been a bumbling mess every time I've spoken to him,” Will says with a wink. 

Hannibal clears his throat and attempts to steer the conversation away from his momentary lapse in manners, “I never pegged you as one for fine arts, Mr. Graham.”

Will raises her brows with a delectably naughty twist to her mouth, like she was resisting a dirty joke, “Usually no, but someone implied I should get some culture.”

Eleanor let out a small gasp and giggled behind her hand, “And what do you do, Will?”

“Besides terrorizing Baltimore's social elite? I dabble in the automotive trade on occasion, along with other business ventures.” Hannibal tries desperately not to roll his eyes. Commanding a conversation is a lost cause whenever Will was involved. 

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks instead.

“I'm only that kind of legal in Canada unfortunately, so I'll pass.”

Hannibal dips his head, ”Eleanor?”

“Oh, yes, thank you dear.”

“I won't be a moment,” he says and gracefully retreats to the bar. He attempts to regroup his thoughts as he waits for both his and Eleanor’s drinks, but finds them scattering again when he turns to see Will laugh at something.

He rejoins the conversation, now including a resplendent Alana Bloom and her new partner, Margot Verger. 

“Hello Alana, Margot,” he hands Eleanor her wine.

“Hannibal, what a pleasant surprise! We haven't seen your face in quite some time,” Alana says cheerfully. 

“And for that I do apologize,” he bows his head, “I assume you have met Will Graham?” he indicates to the person in question. 

“I have,” she says, and there is something in her tone he can't quite place. He sneaks a look at Will for any indication, but the amusement on her face makes him feel like he's missed the world's biggest punchline.

“Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to abandon you all. I should start looking at the artwork if I'm to buy anything,” Will says to no one in particular.

“Another one of your business ventures?” Eleanor asks tongue-in-cheek.

“Indeed. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“May I join you?” Hannibal asks before Will turns away completely, surprising himself with his abrupt question. 

“Going to educate me on art now, Doctor?” her eyes crinkle with mirth.

“I can only attempt, whether or not the lesson is learned is beyond my control.”

“Come give it your best shot then,” Will leads him away from the bejeweled masses to the back of the gallery, and he is helpless to follow. 

*****

Will takes her time with each art piece that interests her, her face shifting from polite interest to abundant delight as they progress through the installation. He moves subtly closer to her under the guise of discussing techniques as well as subject material depicted, studying her intently as she studies various paintings. Will's comments and quips on certain details bring Hannibal an immense satisfaction; rarely has he found a conversation partner such as this. 

“That's a whaling ship, Hannibal, they're hunting the monster just as it's hunting them. This painting isn't about despair, it's about fighting back.” He is inordinately pleased to hear Will's accent curve around his name. 

“And how have you come to that conclusion?” Hannibal presses. 

“The ship has harpoons. Old man, is your eyesight going?” A fantastic conversation partner with a very sharp tongue and Hannibal feels like he's losing the unspoken battle between them. Just like that, the playful undertow to their conversation gains a low level of frustrated arousal. He is wracking his brain on how to turn the tide when Will stops abruptly.

She is gazing up, mouth slightly parted in rapture. He follows her line of sight to probably the most magnificent painting on display tonight. The color shifts from blue to red in increments, like a sunset seen from underneath the waves and they are both caught beneath the water. 

“How does it make you feel?” he asks softly. 

“Like I've drowned and am finally at peace.”

They remain rooted to the ocean floor for several long minutes, until Will shifts, looking at the description and sighs. 

“Something the matter?”

“No, don't worry,” she makes as if to move on to the next piece. 

“Will, what is it?” Hannibal can sense a disquietness from her. 

Will sighs again, brows furrowing as she clenches and unclenches her jaw, “I can't afford it. I can't afford anything here, least of all that.”

Hannibal frowns. If Will planned on buying art, as she said before, surely she would have come prepared? He realizes that Will is being dead honest with him, letting him in on her financial troubles. 

“Will your business venture suffer if you do not purchase anything?”

“I lied to get out of the conversation. You should be proud of me, I was hardly rude.”

“Lying is rude.”

“So is staring, but I didn't call you out on it earlier.”

That brings a smile to both their faces, but Will's falls after a moment and she glances wistfully at the painting. 

“Guess I'll have to memorize it and cut my losses.” 

An idea comes to him right then, one which will let him win the battle and possibly the war going on between them. He jumps to implement it, grasping Will's shoulder and bending down to say in her ear, “I have an errand to run. Stay; look your fill. I will find you here again.”

Will swallows thickly, “Alright.”

Hannibal looks over her as she gazes at the painting again, and turns to leave. He makes his way to the information desk, not rushing but not strolling either. He finds himself in a hurry to get back to Will, lest one of these high society lechers snatch her up for conversation. 

“Hello, I am interested in buying one of the paintings on display.”

“Certainly,” the clerk says, “Which one?”

“ _Onderwater_ , can it be delivered?”

“Yes, but it will cost extra. Quite a popular painting, that one, several others have shown interest already.”

“I will pay double if I have to,” he declares. He cannot lose this. 

“That won't be necessary, none of the others would pay the full amount. Where would you like it delivered?”

“Do you have an address for Will Graham?” This part is a gamble, he knows, but the museum requires certain personal information when one purchases a ticket to any event. 

The clerk types away on his computer, “Yes, I do, but I cannot disclose it to you.”

“That won't be a problem. Can the painting be delivered there?”

“Yes. We require a deposit to reserve the painting,” the clerk pulls out a sheet of paper, “Please sign here.”

*****

That took longer than he anticipated, but the painting is now Will's in all but name. He was assured the painting will be delivered to the address provided on the coming Tuesday and he cannot wait. 

Hannibal finds Will where he left her, looking somewhat dejected. Her face brightens marginally in seeing him, and his heart rate picks up slightly. 

“Ready to resume our tour?” he asks.

“Oh I'm ready, it's my companion that's lagging in his old age.”

Despite the triumphant feeling of having successfully executed a move that would inevitably settle the score between him and Will, Hannibal still feels the sting of her tease. Perhaps it's the inability to declare what he's just done that makes his countenance so brittle. Or she just gets under his skin. Whatever it is, he knows he is harsh with his next comment. 

“Perhaps he should avail himself of a different companion, one who does not constantly criticize him.”

“He might find that serviceable for a while, but he'd eventually grow bored of someone who constantly sings his praises with falsehoods,” her tone is light and flat, like she’s not invested in what’s being said. Like she doesn’t care.

Will is right. Hannibal is torn between strangling Will for her obstinance and kissing her, she infuriates him so. 

“Do you suppose, then, that it makes you special, the way you seem to see just a bit deeper than most?”

“I don't know, does it?” Her face is all honest inquiry, but Hannibal knows it to be a lie. 

“You insist on being rude, Mr Graham. Perhaps I shall carry on with my tour alone.”

“You can't threaten me with something I'm not afraid of, Doctor.”

“Perhaps, but remember, just as you see me, I can see you,” Hannibal deliberately drops his tone low and threatening.

“You don't see quite as well as I do, though, do you?” Will quips, a small shiver running throug her.

“Why do you insist on these games when it's clear we are evenly matched?” Hannibal can feel himself lose composure, “Can we not have a civil conversation? Carrying on with this pretentious sniping is beneath me.”

“Well, I never claimed I wanted to be on top,” Will says, mock-scandalized. 

That does it. 

Hannibal straightens, his jaw clenched. He takes a hard breath, lip twitching in an attempt not to snarl and he grabs Will's arm. “You are coming home with me. Right now.”

He ignores Will's triumphant little smirk as he drags her out towards the Bentley, barely stopping to grab their coats. 

*****

The car ride is quiet, but pleasantly tense. Will barely takes her eyes off of him, and Hannibal finds himself speeding on more than one occasion. He hasn't been such a slave to his own needs since he was a young man. This, of course, prompts an ever-growing, irritating shit-eating grin from Will.

He opens the door to let her into his house, taking her suit jacket to hang up alongside his coat. She gives a breathy chuckle as he leads her to the living room. 

“I should have known it would be aesthetics with you,” she says as she takes in his decor.

“And I should have known you were trouble when I first saw you. Please, sit. Can I offer you a drink?” Hannibal makes his way to the liquor cabinet, selecting a bottle of Macallan, “It seems a bit late for dinner.”

“It's not my fault you couldn't stay away, even though my aesthetics weren't up to your standards, Doctor,” she ignores the couch in favor of stepping closer to the mantle piece, giving him a pointed look, “You know I'm not old enough to drink.”

“I do have coffee, if you are so inclined.”

“Ah, no, thank you.”

Hannibal shrugs internally, pours himself two fingers of fine golden liquor and takes a seat, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he does so.

Will admires some of the objects over his fireplace for a moment, and then turns to grace him with a teasing half smile. It seems she is done beating around the bush. 

“Always so formal, Doctor, don't you ever relax in your own house?” She takes a slow step forward. And then another. 

“I am relaxing, Will,” he all but growls, pointedly taking a sip of his drink. 

“Hmmm,” is all he hears before Will is standing right in front of him, staring down at him. She reaches down and takes the glass from his unresisting hand, bringing it to her lips as she spreads her thighs and sinks down onto the very edge of his lap. Hannibal is so focused on the movement of her throat as she tips her head back and swallows, he barely hears her next words. 

“You're not being a very responsible adult, Hannibal, underage drinking in your house.”

This time he can't keep the snarl off his face.

Will downs the rest of the glass, licks her lips at the burn of good liquor, “Oops, you better get up here and stop me.”

That is all the invitation he needs, grabbing Will so fast she drops the glass somewhere out of sight, one hand fisted in the hair at her nape, disregarding the clips holding it in place, the other snaking around her lower back to pull her against him. He presses their lips together and Will opens on a gasp. 

Hannibal wrenches her head sideways, forcing her mouth open even further and he dives in, devouring. He is captivated by the taste behind her teeth, barely registering the delicious little sounds she makes until she bites his tongue. He wrenches her head again, hair falling from its artful arrangement, exposing her neck for him to run his teeth along. 

Will grabs at his suit jacket, hands scrambling against the fabric until she can get them underneath to push it off his shoulders. He relinquishes his hold on her to shrug it off, eyes locked on her red and shining lips. 

He kisses her softly this time, no demanding feeling to claim now that he has her in his grasp, and slides his hands around her thin waist, up her back, and back to her stomach. Will, in turn, trickles her fine boned hands, covered in silver bracelets matching her necklace, from his chest to his shoulders and finally into his hair. She breaks the kiss, chuckling as she runs her fingers through the strands, letting them fall over his eyes. Her eyes are blown black, a thin line of translucent blue all that remains of her iris. 

“You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do that,” she whispers, eyes traveling all over his face as she pets down his neck. 

Hannibal grips her hips, pushing her down as he grinds up, and she drops her head back on a delightful groan. “Oh, I think I do,” he bites down the tendon in her neck to her collar bone where it's exposed by her shirt, leaving bruises and drawing gasps between the delicate necklace, the movement causing that same dark sweet scent from before to bloom up from her skin, “You have been driving me _insane.”_

__

__

Will grips the short hairs at his nape, yanking his head back at the same time as she twists her hips down onto the hard ridge of his cock. Hannibal lets out an involuntary moan.

“And what's,” she bends down to bite at his Adam's apple, “to be done about that?” 

Hannibal barely resists the urge to throw Will down on the couch and pin her there as she drags her cheek over his stubble. She pauses, lips inches away from his and Hannibal becomes aware that he is _panting_. 

He has to lick his lips, at a momentary loss for words, and Will grins down at him like she's won something. Hannibal is _incensed._

__

__

“Up,” he growls, his upper lip lifting to viciously show his teeth as he digs his nails into Will's sides, “Bedroom. Now.”

They manage to stand up without letting too much space between their bodies. Hannibal claims her mouth, almost violently, and starts walking her backwards. He grips her hips firmly, refusing to let her even _think_ of escape as her hands scrabble with the buttons of his waistcoat. They barely part for breath before kissing again, like they're starved for it. 

When they reach the stairs, Hannibal glides his hands around Will's ass to where the backs of her thighs start, and hoists. She wraps her legs around him with a startled noise, her shoes kicked from her feet as he takes them both upstairs. He holds her against him in the door to his bedroom for a moment, their frenzied kissing calming into more languid licking, but no less desperate for closeness in how they press their foreheads together. Hannibal reluctantly lets Will's legs down, and she tugs on his bottom lip with her teeth like she's afraid he'll leave her right there. 

Her eyes flutter like she's coming out of a trance and her hands begin to move, pushing his waistcoat to the floor before reaching for his tie. She slips the knot and leaves the tie in his collar, deeming his shirt buttons more important. His chest is deftly exposed and Will runs her fingers through the hair there, her silver chain tugging pleasantly. Will makes a wounded noise, bends her head down and licks over one nipple. She bites it gently before giving the same treatment to the other and Hannibal has rarely felt so...appreciated. 

Hannibal has to pause at the sight of Will looking up at him, palms flat on his bare chest and eyes shining black. She regards him with such ardent wonder, and she is entirely too aware for Hannibal's liking. He wants her eyes half-lidded and lips parted in mindless pleasure. He wants her incoherent in revenge of all the teasing she's put him through. He wants her naked and writhing. He _wants_. 

He takes. 

Hannibal pushes Will against the wall with a growl, his fingers flying over the buttons of her waistcoat and then her shirt, revealing her entirely bare chest.

“Oh, Will. _Will_.” 

He grabs her wrists and pins them above her head, his mouth traveling over her necklace to her breast. He takes one nipple in his mouth and her head thunks into the wall with a moan. Hannibal runs his hands down her arms, feeling soft skin under soft fabric, over her chest to around her waist and tugs her against him, surging up to claim her mouth. 

He grinds their hips together and Will sinks her fingers into his hair, “Oh god, Hannibal.”

Hannibal bites at her neck again, “Take this thing off before I break it,” barely recognizing his own voice.

Will fumbles with the clasp of her jewelry, dropping the collection of fine chains to the floor in the same moment Hannibal pops the button on her slacks. She manages to release the chain on her hand as he tugs down her zipper and pushes both pants and underwear down in one movement. He follows, sinking to his knees. 

He nuzzles at the patch of hair at the V of her thighs, breathing in hot arousal combined with that same dark sweetness-Will must have dabbed perfume between her thighs, wicked. He mouths at the soft skin at the jut of her iliac crest, stubble dragging red marks there. Will steps out of her decimated clothes, spreading her legs oh so slightly and he places his hands just above her knees, grip tight enough to brook no argument. Hannibal makes sure to catch Will’s eye above her heaving chest before diving in.

It seems he gets to consume Will after all, despite her ability to stay off his table and out of his freezer. 

He licks softly at first, Will giving a breathy exhale as she grips the wall. Hannibal slides his tongue further, to the heart of that intoxicating musk. It earns him a surprised gasp followed by a soft moan. He moves back to the sensitive nub, closing his teeth around it gently and earning a stuttered thrust of hips to the jaw for his trouble. He presses a forearm across her lower stomach to hold her in place, his other hand inching up the inside of her thigh, and goes back to work. She is absolutely delectable. 

Will twitches periodically, indicating when Hannibal mouths at something especially sensitive, but she can’t move too far. Before long, Hannibal feels fingers slide through his hair to grip lightly over the back of his crown. He presses at the back of one thigh, lifting it over his shoulder when Will bends her knee. He gives her a few firm presses of his tongue into her opening upon gaining better access, tasting musk and heat and Will.

“Ah, ah, fuck, Hannibal,” she whines, tightening her hands in his hair with aborted little thrusts against his lips, “This isn’t fair.” 

He slowly swirls his tongue back, pulling away slightly to meet her heavy gaze from above. “What isn’t?” he all but growls out.

“You have experience on your side,” she huffs.

“And you, youth. I’d say we’re evenly matched,” he nips at the soft skin over her thigh, “Or are you afraid of an old man like me?” He graces her with a predatory grin, her eyes widening and lips parting in surprise, and flattens his tongue over her once more, his arousal coming secondary to hers despite his cock straining in his trousers. 

Hannibal slides a finger through her folds, then into her beside his tongue and Will clenches her hands as she all but collapses back into the wall. He slides in another after a moment, earning a drawn out moan. His fingertips prod relentlessly, searching for that specific place that will entrap his quarry in pleasure. Will gasps like she’s been stabbed, and Hannibal worries at the spot. Will whines, high pitched and completely lost in sensation as Hannibal puts his mouth on her swollen nub, giving her no chance of escape.

She is caged between his hand and his mouth and he drives her towards the precipice ceaselessly. Will comes, shaking, sweet in his mouth, tight around his fingers. She whines as he withdraws and gets to his feet, stares at him through half-lidded eyes, aftershocks trembling through her, as he slides his fingers into his mouth to collect the last of her.

“Fuck.”

“Hmm, yes,” he says, smiling, and slips his shirt off his shoulders. Will sluggishly tugs her shirt off by the cuffs as Hannibal loosens his belt. Her eyes snap down at the sound of the buckle clanging, staring openly at the bulge in his trousers and she absentmindedly runs her tongue across her lower lip. It sends a surge of want up from his belly, through his spine and lungs to the forefront of his mind. 

Oh, how had Hannibal ever thought of killing this wonderful, enigmatic creature?

He hurriedly rids himself of the rest of his clothing, not caring for the crumpled mess he leaves on the floor as he grabs Will around the middle and hauls her to the bed, his neglected arousal now making itself painfully unignorable. 

He presses her down into the sheets, kissing her furiously, stealing her air. She cradles him in her thighs as he bites up her jaw to her ear, earning a breathy moan, and then down her neck to her collarbone. He sucks at the skin there, capillaries bursting just shy of filling his mouth with life and ruts against the soft skin at the crook of her thigh. 

He growls into Will's throat, a threat, stay, and then jumps at the nightstand, throwing open the top drawer and grabbing a condom. The foil crinkles and tears between his teeth, and he rolls the rubber over himself in one quick, practiced movement. 

Will regards him, half wonder, half impatience, complete lust, bruised lips parted and panting. Hannibal spares a moment to capture the image on the canvass of his mind before gripping his prey once again. The kiss he presses to her is more teeth than lips as he takes himself in hand, nudging Will’s legs open and up with his knees.

The outlet of breath against his lips when he enters her is the sweetest he’s ever heard, Will writhing and gasping under him like a siren. He snares one hand around her shoulders, the other holding her hip in a vice and starts a slow, building rhythm, drawing soft moans cut off by a hitch of breath as he angles his hips. Will wraps her legs around his back, crossed at the ankles and drawing him even closer. Her hands twist in his hair, alternating between clawing her nails against his scalp and carding through the strands every time he draws pleasure from her. 

Hannibal mouths at her jaw, her ear, down her neck to the hollow between it and her shoulder and increases the speed of his thrusts into perfect wet heat, gripping her tight enough to leave bruises under his fingertips.

“Oh, _oh_ ,” Will keens into his neck, “Fuck, _yes_ , Hannibal!”

Hannibal pulls back just enough to meet her eyes, balancing on one elbow. Seeing her like this, no room on her face for those teasing little smirks and he cannot help but grin. 

“Ah, Will, no sarcasm for me now?”

Will thrusts up brutally and clenches around him in retaliation, and Hannibal drops his head to her shoulder with a strangled grunt, stilling his hips lest he spill. Will shakes with silent laughter, riling him up. 

Hannibal yanks her by the hips, “You shouldn’t play with fire,” he growls, punctuating every word with a slam of his hips. He keeps thrusting and she claws at his back, throwing her head back into the covers with pitiful little wails and it is Hannibal’s turn to smirk. This, he knows, is what all their little jabs and taunts inevitably led up to and Hannibal will be damned if he doesn’t win, even by a hair.

He rams into Will mercilessly, and her little moans turn into longer and longer cries of pleasure. She flutters around him at first, then clamps down in delicious waves and Hannibal gives himself over to his pleasure in the same moment he forces Will over into hers. Teeth in her shoulder and nails in his back as they come down from the high together, Hannibal dragging it out with slow, smooth thrusts. He eventually stills, breathing heavy atop Will.

Hannibal eases up, smiling at the picture Will made, sweaty and ruffled and entirely sated. She smiles up at him and stretches languidly as he bends down to kiss her gently. He pulls out, tying off the condom and standing to toss it in the bathroom. 

By the time he returns to the bed, Will is asleep, spread out over the sheets, and Hannibal counts this as another point in his favor. 

*****

Hannibal wakes late. And alone. He steadfastly ignores the disconcerting feeling in his chest. He had hoped to make Will breakfast.

Hannibal stops himself. This, last night, was only fun, wasn’t it? While he's had many single evenings of pleasure, he enjoys the morning after, if not as much as the evening before. He can't help the small stab of betrayal. Will's absence has robbed him of the experience of dining with someone, but more than that, it has left him bereft. 

Hannibal realizes he had built up an expectation, and that the expectation has left him vulnerable to disappointment, something he has very little experience in dealing with. 

He uncharacteristically takes his time tidying his bedroom, enjoying the lingering sweetness of perfume on his disheveled sheets and the sting of nail marks down his back in a bittersweet way. 

He is surprised by Will leaving him a gift of sorts, her shirt. He discovers after some meticulous searching that she has taken his shirt, and doesn't quite know how to feel. 

Hannibal pours himself another cup of coffee, impatient for Tuesday to arrive, for his final blow in their battle to land. 

*****

Tuesday comes, and with it the growth of quiet unease over the weekend.

Hannibal is distracted from the moment he wakes, more so than he can remember being in a very long time. He manages to concentrate on making his breakfast as usual, but distraction creeps up on him once again during his first morning session.

How will the painting be received? Will, dressed in some horrifyingly cheap flannel, eyes widening in surprise as she sees what's being delivered to her?

Will she think it's a mistake, send the painting back?

Does she have space for it, wherever she lives? What will she do?

Despite knowing beforehand that he will not get to witness her reaction, Hannibal is bitterly disappointed.

But more than that, he is apprehensive. Will is bound to contact him about the painting, but _when?_

The rest of Tuesday goes much the same, circular thoughts looping in apprehension growing into something akin to foreboding as the end of the day creeps ever closer. 

And he hears nothing from Will. 

It takes every ounce of his substantial willpower to stop fantasizing and worrying about Will's reaction. 

What if Will does not accept? If he scared her off? What if she refuses to interact with him after this?

If he drinks slightly more wine than is appropriate for a weekday before going to bed, well, that’s his prerogative.

*****

“You seem...preoccupied today, Hannibal,” Bedelia’s voice is grating in its melody. 

Hannibal shifts minutely in his seat, but he knows Bedelia sees it. It irritates him that she sees just enough to detect something is off but not enough to discern what is truly going on. No, for that, he craves another set of eyes.

“I have found myself to be less attentive than usual and that is...vexing.”

“Does this new state of mind have anything to do with someone you have met?” 

Damn her. Hannibal purses his lips, considering not telling Bedelia anything, but decides that he might need help cataloging his feelings, not that he'd ever admit to the fact. 

“Yes.”

“Something happened.”

“Yes.” Just because he’s decided the topic may be discussed, doesn’t mean he has to be an entirely willing participant.

Bedelia fixes him with a keen stare, and, as the authority in the room, graciously folds, “What happened?” she asks softly.

Hannibal attempts a menacing look, but by the lack of a fear response from Bedelia, he knows he didn’t succeed. Overthinking and melancholy have put him on the back foot.

“Or did nothing happen?”

Hannibal sighs, “I have made a gesture, and not yet gotten a response,” he trails off.

“Of friendship? Or of the romantic variety?” Bedelia’s voice is carefully controlled.

“It could be seen as a romantic overture, but I fear this particular play has...shown my hand.”

“Shown your hand? How so?”

“It was expensive, the gesture, but more than that it was…,” Hannibal chews his lip absently, “tailored. Personal.”

Bedelia’s brows lift betraying her surprise, _this is serious_.

“What are you afraid of, Hannibal?”

*****

The rest of the week progresses in a daze so thick, Hannibal barely surfaces from it to notice the passing of time. His person suit lets him slide through appointments without any of his patients noticing his inner turmoil. 

He finds himself standing in his living room sometime on Saturday while the sun is up, alternating between realigning decorative objects perfectly and staring into middle distance. 

The third time he catches himself looking at nothing in particular aggravates him into finally _moving_. Grabbing his coat and his keys, he lets his frustration fester, cultivating it as fuel to push him from the week-long slump of inactivity.

__

__

If Will won’t come to him, he will go to her. And he will ensure she knows just how _displeased_ he is about having to do it.

He does not even pause to consider that he did not make a reservation at The Dog.

*****

Hannibal walks into the restaurant during the lull between lunch and dinner with something akin to murderous intent. It is an intimately familiar feeling, a cold one that has carried him through many long nights filled with blood and he is careful to let only a sliver of it show on his face. 

He is brought up short, any and all thoughts of breaking bone and tearing flesh wiped from his mind by what he sees. There, on the previously empty centre column, is _Onderwater_. 

Hannibal stands as if petrified, his mind whirring. The painting should have been delivered to _Will_...did Will give up the address for the restaurant at the art museum? And if so, why? This sudden curveball prompts further suspicion with regards to Will and Hannibal is ashamed to admit that there are glaring inconsistencies surrounding her that he has willfully dismissed or otherwise not noticed up until now. The conclusion he comes to leaves him feeling simultaneously betrayed and incredulous.

To a stranger, Hannibal’s pause is barely noticeable, but Will is no stranger, and she is watching him. If Hannibal were a lesser man, he would use the surprise appearance of the painting as an excuse for not noticing Will straight away, especially as she is staring intently at him from behind her table, right under the painting. The very same table, Hannibal notes, he usually sits at. She is once again dressed like a somewhat homeless punk rocker, the only thing missing from her usually messy countenance is a smirk. In its place instead, is guilt.

Hannibal tries to replicate his previous dark mood, letting it affect his graceful strides into something far more predatory. He wordlessly takes the chair opposite Will, gaze affectionless as she drops her eyes to her lap. 

“Besides _manipulating_ Baltimore’s elite, dabbling in the automotive trade and _lying_ , is there anything else I should know about you Will Graham? Or shall I call you Will La Fontaine?”

Will’s eyes snap up to his, accusing, “Oh that’s rich, Doctor. Besides psychoanalyzing your way into people’s pants, donating to various charities and _murder_ , is there anything else I should know about you, _Chesapeake Ripper?_ ”

For the second time in about as many minutes, Hannibal’s thoughts come to a crashing halt, a pileup on the highway during rush hour. 

For a moment neither say anything, simply staring. Hannibal unclenches his jaw, clearing his throat. He considers denial in the face of Will’s accusation, but given that she has accused him to his face instead of sicking the FBI on him, he ultimately decides against it. 

“Did you follow me, Will?”

“No, but you did,” she says stonily, “or at least you tried to. I knew I had to keep a close eye on you even before you let me stare at your soul. Granted, it took me a while to figure out exactly _who_ you are, given that I already had the _what_.”

So Will had seen him. Is this how he is finally caught, one impulsive decision and several incredible conversations later? He had been _so careful_ to keep his monster hidden, his person suit his best creation yet.

“I must ask Will, why haven’t you alerted the authorities?” his voice is not as steady as he would like it to be.

“Are you kidding me Hannibal? That display at the waterfront was the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

His eyes widen a fraction, but it is enough for Will to notice. He swallows reflexively, mouth dry and heart stuttering. He is the closest he’s ever been to panicking when he notices the subtle pink of a blush across Will’s cheeks, deepening as the seconds tick by.

“Will…”

“You’ve given me two stunning pieces of art, Hannibal, but,” here it comes, Hannibal braces himself for rejection, “I can’t help wondering, why me?”

Hannibal has to swallow again before he answers, “I have to ask the same thing. It wasn’t my intention at first, at least not consciously. I do suspect the game we started got away from me.”

Will gives a breathy chuckle, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth and glancing at Hannibal from beneath her lashes, “Ha, yeah, I suspected as much when that,” she pointed up to the artist’s impression of a liquid sunset, “arrived on my doorstep. It, uh, kinda gave you away.”

Hannibal feels indignant at that, frowning.

“Listen, I’m sorry about, y’know, leaving before you woke up...and not reaching out after.”

“Yes, more than a little rude.”

“Oh you know me, all rude,” Will chews on her lip, frowning at her hands as they twist in her lap, “I wanted to. Reach out. I know I should have left a note, but I had to be here at the asscrack of dawn to help Alana and Margot and then you bought the damn painting-” Will cuts herself off, rubbing both hands over her face. “It seems the game got away from me too.”

Hannibal’s frown softens slowly, morphing into a small private smile. He will never admit it, but this is what he’s been afraid of, Will not feeling the same. Tension he did not even realize he was holding disappears in a wave of relief, his shoulders sagging. “Alana Bloom?”

Will blinks at him from between her fingers, “Yes, she’s my new chef. I thought you knew?”

“I have been a tad preoccupied of late,” he sniffs, feeling a bit stupid.

“Yeah, no shit.”

Will drops her hands, blush now tinting her face a deep pink. She smiles at him, “Thank you. For the painting, but, uh,” she trails off.

“It is a pleasure Will, but?” Hannibal prompts gently.

“It’s a lot Hannibal. Oh don’t give me that look, I saw the price tag on that thing and it wasn’t pocket change.”

“Money is of no consequence, Will.”

“Yeah to you, but not to me. In case you haven’t noticed, but I grew up poor. I’ve been for all intents and purposes disowned by my mother’s family. I put the last of my money into this place and then my chef fucking died.”

“I am sorry Will, it won’t happen again.”

“Just slow down, okay? Besides, don’t courtship gifts start small?”

Hannibal is struck. Will wants this to continue. “I’ll give you anything, my dear, you just have to ask.”

Will gifts him a mischievous smile, and Hannibal knows he’s in trouble, “Anything?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I do need a business partner,” she gestures around the room, “Would you like to invest?”

“My dear,” he takes her hand, kissing her knuckles, “I’d be delighted.”

They smile at one another, utterly smitten, “Great, I’ll introduce you to the staff.”

“One condition,” he says, holding up a hand.

“Yeah?” she cocks a brow.

“Let me make you dinner.”

Will laughs, and Hannibal thinks it is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr.](https://heavymetalhannigram.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanart for MarcelWorldsmith](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29080710) by [g_love99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/g_love99/pseuds/g_love99)




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